‘And this was?’
‘About half-one.’
‘Till?’
‘Two-thirty, three o’clock.’
‘See anyone you know?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know their names.’
Rudkin looks up, ‘That’s unfortunate that is, Donald.’
I say, ‘Would you know them again, if you saw them?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Men or women?’
‘A couple of the black lads, couple of the girls.’
‘The girls?’
‘You know?’
‘No, I don’t. Be more specific’
‘Prostitutes.’
‘Whores, you mean?’ says Rudkin.
He nods.
I ask, ‘You go with whores, do you Donny?’
‘No.’
‘So how come you know they’re prostitutes?’
‘I pick them up, don’t I? Get talking.’
‘They offer you discounts, do they? For cheap lifts?’
‘No.’
‘Right, so you’re at the party. What did you?’
‘Had a drink.’
‘You always go to a party after work?’
‘No, but it’s Jubilee, isn’t it?’
Rudkin smiles, ‘Bit of a patriot are you, Don?’
‘Yeah I am, as a matter of fact.’
‘Fuck you drink with wogs and whores for then?’
‘I told you, I just wanted a drink.’
I say, ‘So you just sat there in the corner, sipping a half you?’
‘Yeah, that was about it.’
‘Didn’t have a dance or a bit of a cuddle?’
‘No.’
‘Smoke a bit of the old wog weed, did you?’
‘No.’
‘So then you just went home?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And what time was that then?’
‘Must have been about three-ish.’
‘And where’s home?’
‘Pudsey.’
‘Nice place, Pudsey’
‘It’s all right.’
‘Live alone do you Donny?’
‘No, with my mum.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘It’s all right.’
‘Light sleeper is she, your mum?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, did she hear you come in?’
‘Doubt it.’
Rudkin, big fat fucking grin: ‘So you don’t sleep in the same fucking bed or anything daft like that?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Here,’ spits Rudkin, the hard stare in Fairclough’s face. ‘The shit you’re in, you’ll wish you had been fucking your mum. Understand?’
Fairclough’s eyes drop, nails up to his mouth.
‘So,’ I say, ‘what we got is this: you knocked off work about one, went down to a party on Leopold Street, had a couple of drinks, drove home to Pudsey for about three. Right?’
‘Right,’ he’s nodding. ‘Right.’
‘Says who?’
‘Says me.’
‘And?’
‘And anyone who was at that party.’
‘Whose names you don’t know?’
‘Just ask anyone who was there. They’ll pick me out, I swear.’
‘Let’s hope so. For your fucking sake.’
Upstairs, out of the Belly.
No sleep.
Just coffee.
No dreams.
Just this:
Shirtsleeves and smoke, grey skins with big black rings crayoned across our faces:
Oldman, Noble, Prentice, Alderman, Rudkin, and me.
On every wall, names:
On every wall, words:
On every wall, numbers:
